


we could be the way forward

by oftirnanog



Series: forever is the sweetest con [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Destiel is canon, Domestic, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, oh yeah, some things were a dream, yes it is canon compliant and everybody lives at the same time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28084335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftirnanog/pseuds/oftirnanog
Summary: Dean wants to catch this moment in a bottle. It’s not something he ever thought he’d have. He’s used to cooking for other people, but never with anyone. The closest he ever came was with Lisa, but that had always felt like borrowed time. It had never truly felt like his. The threat of his old life always hung over them, ready to sink its teeth in. And it had. But now? Now he might actually get to have this. He wants it so badly that part of him wants to turn and run in the other direction. He’s never wanted anything this badly in his life. He’s never let himself.In which most of 15x20 was a dream, Cas is back from the Empty, and he and Dean take the first steps in navigating this thing called love. Also, Dean teaches Cas how to make scrambled eggs.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Series: forever is the sweetest con [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082891
Comments: 33
Kudos: 329





	we could be the way forward

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, we die like men, etc.
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift's "cowboy like me" because I'm nothing if not predictable.

Dean wakes up in a hospital bed. His head is throbbing. He blinks and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to pull himself into proper wakefulness and orient himself to his surroundings. Trying to figure out what landed him here.

Turns out he’s not in a hospital, per se, but the infirmary in the bunker. Dean pushes himself up on his elbows, dragging his protesting muscles into as much of an upright position as he can manage. No one else is in the room.

He has bits of "Carry On Wayward Son" echoing in his mind, vestiges of a dream, he figures. At first he thinks it’s the original Kansas version, but as more pieces of his dream come back to him, it changes into something...weird. Like tuning into a radio station from another planet. He’s reminded forcibly of the version from that musical at the high school where they had to gank Calliope. 

He can’t remember anything about how he ended up here. His memory is clouded by a bizarre dream that is coming back to him in disjointed flashes. Something about being impaled on a piece of rebar. Dean shifts his shoulder and back muscles to test the skin there, make sure nothing pulls, that he’s still intact. Nothing twinges, so he files that under _dream_. He remembers seeing Bobby, drinking some shitty beer, driving around until he met Sam on a bridge somewhere that looked like western Canada. It all has that surreal dream quality where one scene bleeds into another without any logic. 

And he remembers Cas. Dream Bobby had told him that Cas helped Jack rebuild heaven. 

Dean’s heart squeezes in his chest. Dreaming about dying ain’t exactly pleasant, but he’d almost trade for it if it meant Cas was alive, existing somewhere in the universe that wasn’t an empty void. A wave of nausea sweeps over Dean, turning his stomach and sending a cold sweat over his skin. He’d blame it on whatever landed him in this hospital bed, if it weren’t for the memory forcing its way to the surface: Cas, standing before him, telling him that he... 

And then the Empty curling itself around him before swallowing him into nothing. 

Dean clenches his teeth and swallows against the rush of saliva in his mouth. He’d really rather not puke. He shuts his eyes until he stops seeing red spots and takes a slow, steadying breath. In for four, out for four. Like Sam taught him. It helps.

Before Dean has the chance to decide if he’ll try to get up, he hears a clattering of nails running across the floor, followed by a blur of tan fur, and then he has a lapful of dog. Miracle crashes into him, licking at his chin and wagging his tail in a steady _thump thump thump_ against the mattress. Dean wraps his arms around the dog’s warm, wriggling body and buries his face in the fur at his neck.

“Hey buddy,” he says. He pulls back and gets his fingers behind Miracle’s ears, right where he likes to be scratched. “Where is everybody? Huh? What’s going on?”

Then he hears footsteps coming down the stairs.

“You’re awake,” Sam says. He’s carrying a glass of water and a truly magnificent looking sandwich.

“Yeah.” Dean gently shifts Miracle to the side so he can take the plate from Sam. Underneath the current of his nausea is a clawing hunger. He wonders how long he’s been out. “What happened?”

Sam frowns. “You don’t remember?” 

Dean has to twist and dodge Miracle nosing his way towards the sandwich. “I dunno, man. I had this really weird dream and it’s all kinda mixed up in my head right now. I _died_. Impaled by rebar, of all things. Can you believe that?”

Miracle lets out a low whine and Dean slips him a bit of tomato, which, for some reason, is his favourite. Then he turns to Sam who’s wearing an expression caught somewhere between pained and confused.

“You _were_ impaled by rebar,” he says.

Dean’s eyebrows jump and he pauses with the sandwich mid-way to his mouth. “Huh.”

“Is that the last thing you remember?” Sam asks.

“I think so,” he says. His mind is racing now, sifting through memories or dreams for something he’s sure of. He shifts his shoulders again, searching for something—a twinge in the muscles, a pull of stitched up skin, any evidence of being stabbed by fucking rebar, because that has to leave a mark—but there’s nothing. He feels good as new aside from his nauseating hunger and the usual aches that come with being a middle-aged hunter. 

Dean takes a bite of his sandwich, finally, to avoid the worried look on Sam’s face. As he’s eating, he’s hit with another piece of a dream or a memory. He really hates that he can’t tell the difference.

“Did I monologue at you?” Dean asks through a mouthful of sandwich.

Sam’s look of concern morphs into one of extreme incredulity. “What?” he says sharply. “No. Of course not. You were a little busy bleeding out.”

Dean frowns and takes another bite. Now that he has a bit of food in his stomach, the events of the past couple days—week?—start to properly sink in and he has more questions. Like, “How did we get out of that one?”

“Well,” Sam says, and his expression softens for the first time since he entered the room. He doesn’t get a chance to finish whatever he was about to say because another figure appears at the top of the stairs. A figure wearing a trenchcoat and a shock of messy, dark hair.

“Cas.” The name slips past Dean’s lips on an exhale of shock. He’s frozen but for his heart, which is now rocketing in his chest, beating frantically against his breastbone. He wants to get out of the bed, to touch Cas and make sure he’s real, but he was already jittery with hunger and exhaustion, and he isn’t sure he won’t immediately pass out again. He’s struck by a sudden terrible suspicion that he’s still dreaming. Please, God, Jack, whomever, let him not be dreaming. His heart climbs into his throat with fear.

“Hello, Dean.” 

Cas’s familiar rumble cracks Dean open. He’s going to start crying in a second, he can feel it in his throat and the backs of his eyes. Cas is holding himself awkwardly. He’s still standing at the top of the stairs and his eyes keep darting away from Dean’s face and then back again as he shifts uneasily, making no move to come down.

Dean’s sure now that it’s not a dream. If it were a dream he’d be kissing Cas by now. Instead all he can do is stare as Cas tugs uncomfortably at the sleeves of his ridiculous trench coat. 

“You just gonna stand there?” Dean finally manages, hating the way his voice cracks in the middle.

Cas brings his eyes back to Dean’s face and leaves them there this time. Dean’s never seen him look so uncomfortable. Or terrified. He needs Cas to get down here, now, so he can talk to him properly. They’re due for a conversation that’s been over a decade in the making, but they can’t have it with Cas lingering uneasily at the top of the infirmary stairs. Sam, for once, reads the energy of the room and starts up the stairs.

“I’m just gonna—” he says, pointing at nowhere in particular. Then he whistles at Miracle and says, “Let’s go, boy.” Miracle takes one last longing look at Dean’s sandwich and leaps from the bed.

Sam squeezes Cas’s shoulder on his way past and Cas watches him go with trepidation.

“Will you get down here already,” Dean says. It comes out like a plea. 

Cas looks at him helplessly, but he does start down the stairs. Seeing him draw steadily closer reminds Dean how to move, so he abandons the sandwich on the bed and swings his legs over the side of the mattress, prepared to meet Cas halfway. He’s thwarted by a head rush that hits him as soon as he’s completely vertical and the only thing that stops him from collapsing to the floor is Cas rushing forward to catch him. Dean grasps at his arms and doesn’t let go even when Cas helps him sit back down on the edge of the bed. He never wants to let go of him again.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks, managing to sound like he’s chastising Dean at the same time.

“Head rush,” Dean says, by way of explanation, squeezing his eyes shut until it subsides.

“You need to eat,” Cas insists. He tries to pull away so he can pass Dean his plate of food, but Dean only grips him harder.

“How?” Dean asks. “How are you here?”

Cas ducks his head, avoiding Dean’s gaze again, and says, “Jack.”

“Jack?” Dean can feel his frown deepening, which causes the throbbing in his head to dig in further, but he’s putting some pieces together and doesn’t like the picture its painting. “How long have you been back?” he demands.

Cas’s gaze slides past him, snagging on Dean only briefly. He doesn’t pull away though.

“Cas, how long?” Dean says, when he still hasn’t answered. He knows his grip on Cas’s arms is probably bordering on painful now but he can’t make himself let go.

“Since he restored everyone who was dusted by Chuck,” Cas admits quietly.

Dean does let him go then, pulls his hands back and pushes himself further onto the bed. “What? You’ve been back this whole time?”

He’s shouting now, and he hates that, but his eyes are burning with unshed tears again. He feels sick, sure he’s about to bring up whatever food he just managed to eat. The only reason he can think of that would keep Cas away is that he was avoiding the fallout of their last moments together. Cas had told him he loved him, but he’d never thought he’d have to live with the consequences of that. Never thought he’d have to follow through on being saddled to Dean for the rest of his life. Jack would’ve brought Cas back with his mojo intact and probably _was_ restoring Heaven and of course Cas wouldn’t want to stick around when he had better options. 

“I wanted to give you some space,” Cas says. “Some time to figure out—”

“Figure out what? How to live without you? I thought you were dead! I thought you were gone. For—” Dean shakes his head, his breath hitching. “For good this time. And you wait until now to show up?”

“You almost died!” Cas shouts. Whatever lingering guilt had been on Cas’s face retreats in favour of a fierce anger. “I didn’t sacrifice myself just so you could defeat Chuck. I wanted you to have the chance to live. You deserve that. You earned that.”

They’re both breathing hard now. Dean swallows and the lump in his throat is so big that it hurts. Cas must see something of this on his face because he softens. He takes a step closer to the bed. 

“I wanted you to have a chance to live your life,” Cas says gently. “To figure out what you wanted without Chuck, or the affairs of Heaven and Hell coming down on your shoulders.” He stumbles over the word ‘heaven’ and Dean realizes he’s lumping himself into that category.

Dean swallows again, willing his voice to work. “Without Chuck,” he repeats. “Not without you.” He reaches for Cas again, twisting a hand in the lapel of his coat so he can drag him forward. “Not without you.”

It’s ridiculous. Dean’s guilt had become a living thing for days after Cas was swallowed by the Empty, lodged up under his ribs getting at all the parts those bones were supposed to protect. And still he can feel the words catching in his throat, sticking there even when he doesn’t want them to. Years of repression don’t just go away overnight, he guesses. He never thought this was something he could have. He still isn’t sure that he can. He’s having a hard time ordering his thoughts into words and the effort of holding back tears is only making his headache dig in even harder. He’s going to have to sleep again soon, but he needs to say this first. Even if Cas hadn’t meant what Dean thought—hoped—he had. Even if Cas has changed his mind in the wake of a future neither of them ever thought they’d get. Dean clears his throat.

“Cas…”

“You don’t have to say anything, Dean.

“Don’t do that again,” Dean says, clenching his jaw. “Look, I, uh…”

“Dean,” Cas interrupts again, in a tone like he’s trying to reason with him.

“No, shut up for a minute. I need to say this.” He makes sure Cas is looking at him and holds his stare. His eyes are so fucking blue that the bottom drops out of Dean’s stomach for a moment. He takes a shuddering breath. “I love you, too. Cas, you have no idea. I have been in love with you...fuck, for years now.” A sob kicks its way out of his lungs. 

Cas’s hands come up to frame Dean’s face. They’re so warm. So gentle. His eyes are wet. Something releases in Dean’s chest. Something he thinks he’s been holding on to for years. It cracks open and Dean feels like he can breathe better than he has in his entire messy life. 

“Dean,” Cas says, and he injects such tenderness into that single syllable that all the breath leaves Dean’s lungs at once. Just from the way Cas says his name like it’s something holy, with more reverence than Dean has ever given anything in his entire life. Except Cas. Always Cas. 

“Will you let me kiss you now?” Dean manages.

Cas laughs, a surprised, joyous burst, and then he’s leaning forward and pressing his lips to Dean’s. And Dean feels so buoyant he thinks he might float away if he didn’t have Cas to hold onto. Cas’s lips are soft and warm against his, gentle and sure all at once, and when Dean opens his mouth, Cas responds in kind. And then Cas’s tongue is in his mouth. Dean makes a broken, desperate sound that Cas swallows. Dean gets his hand at the back of Cas’s neck, into the soft hair there, and Cas groans. And just like that Dean’s half hard in his sweats, spreading his legs so he can draw Cas closer. 

Which is, of course, when a throb of pain decides to spike through his temples and send a fresh roil of nausea through his gut. He has to pull back and clench his teeth against the sick rush of saliva in his mouth, and he’s so frustrated he could scream, but all he can manage is a low growl. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut until the sensation passes. Dean presses his forehead into the firm plane of Cas’s belly and Cas works his fingers against the base of his scalp. It feels deliriously good, but he wants to be kissing him again.

“You should get some more sleep,” Cas says, the words muffled by Dean’s hair as Cas presses a kiss there.

“I don’t know,” Dean mumbles, not wanting to move. “I think I have a concussion.”

He feels Cas’s body stiffen with concern, followed by the familiar tingle of grace working its way over his scalp. It feels different, though. Not as sharply cold as it normally does. Before he has a chance to ask him about it, Cas is pulling back and looking at him closely, hands on either side of his face, tugging gently at his eyelids to get a better look at his pupils.

“I’m so sorry, I was so concerned with healing your impalement wound that I didn’t think to check for head injuries,” he says.

“‘S’okay,” Dean says. He grabs on to Cas’s wrist and rubs his thumb along the soft skin there in a way he hopes is reassuring.

“Is that any better?” Cas asks, once the tingling chill has receded.

Dean blinks and considers it. “Yeah. Still kind of a dull ache, but definitely better. I don’t feel like I’m going to hurl anymore, at least.”

“I’m sorry I can’t take it away completely,” Cas says.

He’s still frowning. Dean wants to smooth his fingers over the lines there and ease the worry away. And then he realizes he can now, so he does, running a thumb firmly but gently over his forehead, and Cas looks at him like Dean’s the most wondrous thing he’s ever beheld in his life.

It’s overwhelming.

Dean clears his throat. “Your grace still acting up? Thought Jack would’ve fixed that.”

“He tried,” Cas says, then busies himself fussing with the bedsheets, tugging them back and then straightening them to ease out the creases, maneuvering around Dean like a trained nurse.

“And?” Dean presses.

Cas sighs. “I told you. Loving you changed me Dean. It made me more human. I’m still an angel, but my grace, it…” He cocks his head, looking for the right words. “It doesn’t fit the way it used to. It’s still there, but it ebbs and flows. It’s more like residual static. I was lucky to be able to heal that stab wound as well as I did.”

Dean feels another sick swoop, this time brought on by guilt, as instinctual as breathing. 

It must show on his face because Cas immediately adds, “And before you say anything, this is not your fault. My grace has been fading for a while now. With everything that’s happened, the number of times I’ve been essentially remade, it was really just a matter of time.” Cas pauses. “In any case, I wouldn’t change any of it.”

Dean gives an incredulous huff. 

Cas manages to look both pained and offended at once. “What?”

“C’mon, Cas. You’re telling me if you had the chance to fix up heaven, you wouldn’t zap back upstairs at the first opportunity?” Dean says, like he’s just found the damning piece of evidence to win a case.

“That is exactly what I’m telling you,” he growls. “And I _have_ been helping to fix heaven.”

This snaps Dean out of his defensive meanness. “What?”

Cas sighs. “Jack has been rebuilding heaven and he asked for my input, so I gave it."

Dean’s brain immediately jumps to “gotcha!” because Cas _did_ take the first opportunity to go to heaven, but he’s too tired to be upset about it just now. And if thinks about it for more than half a second, he gets it, in a way. He probably would have done the same if their positions had been reversed. 

“I dreamed that,” he ends up saying. The strangeness of these kernels of truth in what he thought was a dream is making it easier for him to let any lingering anger go.

Cas’s eyebrows jump in surprise and then immediately contract with confusion. “You dreamed of heaven?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, hand reaching for the back of his neck. “I died and I got to heaven and Bobby was there. He told me you and Jack rebuilt heaven. Harvelle’s Roadhouse was there, and Baby.”

“Oh. Well, it’s not quite that substantial. It’s less a place and more a state of being. It’s a little difficult for human minds to grasp, I think,” Cas explains.

“Says the multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent in a trenchcoat.”

Cas blinks in surprise and stares at him.

“What?” Dean asks.

“I didn’t think you remembered that.”

Dean huffs. “Kinda hard to forget.” 

“Well,” Cas says. “I’m not quite as formidable as I once was.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Dean says. 

Cas’s mouth quirks into a half smile. Dean watches him as he shuffles his feet, runs his hands once more over the already-straightened sheets before clenching them into fists at his sides. There’s an awkwardness between them, still. Dean would have thought kissing Cas would’ve dispelled with all that, but maybe it’s still going to be strange for a little while. A new thing to navigate. They’ve spent so much time dancing around each other, holding one another just out of reach except in their more desperate moments. It was silly to think they could just fall into this without a single stumble. Old habits die hard and all that. 

Dean reaches for Cas’s hand and eases his fingers apart. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, just that Cas looks tense and Dean wishes he didn’t. He wants Cas to know that he’s in this. They both have to get better at talking to each other, but this is something Dean can do to show him. He can uncurl Cas’s fingers and bring his mouth to Cas’s palm. Cas looks like he might cry. It’s shockingly intimate. So much so that Dean nearly startles himself out of it, but then Cas is reaching his other hand to Dean’s face, cradling his jaw and sweeping his thumb over the skin beneath his eye. Dean has to squeeze his eyes shut and swallow. 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice just above a whisper.

“Yeah.” He opens his eyes and tilts his face up to Cas, ready to continue where they left off and make out properly.

“You should get some more sleep.”

Dean groans and turns so that his mouth is pressed against Cas’s palm again. He wants to protest, but he’s exhausted. Deep in his bones. He can feel his eyelids drooping, already losing the fight against sleep. It’s so sudden that he wonders if Cas is using his grace to help him along.

“Stay?” Dean asks, before he can think better of it. His face flushes anyway, and he keeps his face tilted away from Cas, terrified to see what his reaction might be to such a needy request.

But Cas just climbs into the bed next to Dean, settling himself against the headboard, legs sprawled out on the mattress over the covers.

“Dude, at least take your shoes off,” Dean says weakly, unable to process the immediacy of Cas’s willingness to just be with him, even while he’s going to be unconscious.

Cas rolls his eyes, but he bends to remove his shoes, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor before shrugging out of both his trenchcoat and suit jacket. And then he’s there in just his shirt, tie loose around his neck, pants tugging tightly across his thighs. Dean’s eyes make their way across his body and land on his face. 

“Too much?” Cas asks.

“N-no,” Dean says. He swallows. “Just, here.” He pulls himself onto the bed properly and reaches for Cas’s tie, which gives him _ideas_ , but he just lifts it over Cas’s head, and Cas lets him.

“Better?” Cas rumbles, once Dean has tossed the tie with his coat and jacket. 

Dean flashes him a cheeky grin. “Not quite.” And then he kisses him. Because he can do that now. It’s allowed.

Cas makes a shocked little noise and his hand grabs at Dean’s hip. This time they’re not interrupted by any clawing pain or nausea and it’s so good. It’s _so good_. They stay like that, exchanging small, gentle kisses, Cas’s hand moving its way up Dean’s ribs, Dean pushing his fingers into Cas’s hair, until Dean remembers that he’s still more or less concussed and, oh yeah, still _so fucking tired._ Nearly dying really does take it out of you. You think he’d be used to that by now. 

They end up lying down, Dean half-sprawled over Cas, his face tucked into the place where Cas’s neck meets his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, all ozone and summer storms, which Dean has always assumed comes from his grace. The gentle tingle of it buzzes over his scalp and down his spine, a low, steady healing that Cas keeps up for as long as he’s able. It sends him into such a state of sated bliss that he doesn’t even think twice about hooking his leg over Cas’s and wrapping his arm around his waist, hand clutched in the fabric of his shirt. 

Cas, for his part, gets one hand around the back of Dean’s neck and presses his mouth to the top of Dean’s head, apparently unbothered by any hair that might tickle his nose. Dean falls asleep like this, and for once he doesn’t dream. He sleeps more soundly than he has in years. 

*

When Dean wakes, Cas is gone. He’s surprised to find this doesn’t immediately trip him into a spiral of insecurity. Instead, he reasons that he hadn’t expected Cas to stay the whole time he was sleeping. The guy doesn’t sleep, or at least not the last time he checked, and Dean must have been asleep for hours (as always, it’s hard to gauge passage of time in the bunker), so of course he’d go find something to occupy himself.

Dean stretches and sits up and determines that he feels well enough to venture out of the infirmary. Cas’s steady stream of low grade grace healing must have done the trick. His stomach growls as he makes his way up the stairs, so he decides to hit the kitchen first. Maybe he can rustle up another sandwich. 

For whatever reason he expects to find it empty, but what he finds instead is Cas, standing over the stove, smoke billowing from a skillet that upon closer inspection contains a greyish mass that Dean thinks may once have been eggs. A second skillet is hissing and spitting around the charred remnants of bacon. Dean grabs a side towel and pulls the pan with the bacon onto one of the unheated elements.

“Dean,” Cas says, too frazzled to protest as Dean eases him to the side and takes the pan of eggs over to the trash. He dumps the gelatinous glob into the bin and drops the pan in the sink before turning back to Cas.

“What happened?” he asks, but even as he voices the question he realizes that no one has ever shown Cas how to cook. Even when he’d been human he’d relied largely on things he could nuke in a microwave. Or PB&J. 

“I wanted to make you breakfast,” Cas says, sounding so thoroughly defeated that Dean wishes he could go back and ask the question a different way.

“You don’t have to do that,” Dean says, not really knowing what else to say. 

“It looked like it would be simple,” Cas says, and Dean has a sudden vision of Cas searching cooking videos on YouTube.

“Well, hey,” Dean says, “no one’s born knowing how to cook.” 

He pulls two clean pans down from the rack and turns back to the stove because this? This is a problem he can solve. This isn’t Cas’s grace fritzing in and out, it isn’t a heaven that needs rebuilding, it isn’t a relationship he’s not yet sure how to navigate. It’s food. Dean can do food. “First of all, you have the heat way too high,” he says, turning down the burners that Cas had cranked to max. 

“Want to grab more eggs from the fridge?” he asks, turning to Cas. “I’ll show you how to make perfect scrambled eggs.” There’s already a bowl with a fork sitting in it coated with an eggy film, so Cas at least got step one right. “And some milk,” Dean adds.

Cas brings the requested ingredients to the counter. He also brings the rest of the bacon and Dean can’t help but smile at that. Cas sets them all down and looks at Dean, who pushes the bowl towards him.

“It looks like you got this first part handled,” he says. “Get crackin’,” he can’t help adding, and slants Cas a goofy little smile that he has no control over. 

Cas returns with a smile accompanied by a confused furrow, like he knows he’s missing out on a joke. It’s so familiar and so _Cas_ that Dean wants to kiss him, but if he starts he won’t be able to stop, so he looks back at the eggs. “Four should do it,” he says.

“You want to eat four eggs?” Cas asks, incredulous.

“No, I want to eat three eggs, but you gotta try some, too. You can’t learn to cook if you don’t taste your own food.”

“All I ever taste is molecules, I don’t think that will be a fruitful exercise,” Cas says, still looking distinctly disgruntled.

“Humour me,” Dean replies.

Cas gives him what can only be described as the side-eye, but starts cracking the eggs into the bowl. Dean pours a splash of milk over them and lets Cas whisk it together. Except he doesn’t whisk it so much as he stabs at it with a stirring motion.

“Okay, hold up.” Dean lays a hand on Cas’s wrist to stop him and reaches for the fork, which Cas relinquishes immediately. 

Their fingers brush together in the process and even that small amount of contact is enough to make Dean’s stomach perform a series of ridiculous little backflips. He wonders what will happen when they finally get each other naked, but that thought so thoroughly short-circuits his brain that he forgets what he’s doing for a moment. Cas has to say his name (a bit of concern bleeding into it, which Dean supposes is warranted) to snap him back to the kitchen and the bowl of poorly mixed eggs.

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Hold it like this.” He demonstrates an easy grip with the flat of the fork facing down. “And then it’s like a quick circular motion.” He whisks it up until little bubbles form and then passes it back to Cas.

Cas mimics his movements, a bit clumsily, and then looks to Dean for approval. Dean doesn’t have to see his own face to know that the smile he’s wearing is impossibly fond. He tries to school it into something less embarrassing and is pretty sure he fails. 

“Perfect,” he says, which is both a lie and the truth.

Cas doesn’t bother to contradict him but he does give him a disbelieving little eyebrow quirk to which Dean can’t help responding with a huff of laughter.

“Okay, bacon first because it’s going to take longer.” Dean rips into the package and starts laying strips across the pan. “Low and slow is the rule for bacon. You can lay the strips right next to each other because it’s going to shrink as it cooks.”

Dean turns to see if Cas is getting all this and finds him watching so intently that he’s suddenly self-conscious. He was going to wait for the bacon to cook a bit before starting the eggs, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to keep from starting something with Cas if he doesn’t occupy himself in some other way, and he doesn't want to burn the food all over again. So he gets the second pan on a burner.

He clears his throat. “Warm the pan first. Then pour the eggs in.” 

Cas sidles up next to him with the bowl of eggs. “Now?”

“Uh, yeah, go for it,” Dean says, even though they should probably wait a bit longer. He can’t focus with Cas standing that close. He can see all the little lines around his eyes and the way his hair is curling softly around his ears. The slope of his neck is incredibly distracting. Dean wants to put his mouth there. Wants to scrape his teeth along the line of his jaw. Cas leans in to pour the eggs in the pan and Dean shivers.

Cas notices because Cas notices everything. “Are you okay?” he asks, laying his free hand on Dean’s shoulder. Right where his handprint used to be. Dean doesn’t know if he’s okay. He thinks he might combust under the pressure of his self-restraint. It’s certainly not doing anything for his ability to teach Cas how to make scrambled eggs. But that’s not what Cas means.

“Yeah,” he manages. “I’m good.” 

He passes Cas a spatula and steps to the side to give him more room at the stove. His hands are shaking, which might be because it’s been too long since he last ate. Yeah, he’s going to go with that.

“So let it cook a bit and then start pulling it away from the edges to let the uncooked part run over,” Dean says, determined to continue with this lesson.

Cas does what he’s instructed, glancing at Dean occasionally for approval. Dean nods and then tends to the bacon. 

It’s...unbearably domestic. Dean wants to catch this moment in a bottle. It’s not something he ever thought he’d have. He’s used to cooking _for_ other people, but never _with_ anyone. The closest he ever came was with Lisa, but that had always felt like borrowed time. It had never truly felt like his. The threat of his old life always hung over them, ready to sink its teeth in. And it had. But now? Now he might actually get to have this. He wants it so badly that part of him wants to turn and run in the other direction. He’s never wanted anything this badly in his life. He’s never let himself. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s making him nauseous, a bit, with anxiety.

He glances over at the pan of eggs and is surprised to find them perfectly scrambled. He’d give himself credit except for how he was busy having a quiet breakdown while he was supposed to be showing Cas what to do.

“Hey, that looks great, man,” he says. Cas looks so pleased with himself that Dean almost kisses him right then. Instead he reaches in front of Cas and flips off the burner. He leaves the bacon for a few more minutes. 

Cas dumps the entire pan of eggs onto one plate like he’s going to get away with not trying them. Dean lets him think that for a minute, shaking some salt and pepper over the eggs before digging his fork in and taking a mouthful.

“Perfect,” Dean says through a second mouthful.

Cas gives him a satisfied smile. “It was fairly easy after all.” 

They stare at each other for a long moment and Dean forgets that he’s supposed to keep breathing. Then Cas makes a move like he’s going to turn back to the stove, presumably to check on the bacon. Dean reaches for him, meaning to catch him by the wrist, but landing on his waist instead. It works just as well to reel him in, so Dean goes with it.

“Uh uh, not so fast,” he says.

Cas turns back to him with a startled expression and Dean is momentarily distracted by the way his eyes flick to Dean’s mouth. 

“You still haven’t tried any,” Dean says, hooking two fingers through Cas’s belt loop to keep him close. It feels intimate, that small action, and Dean is nearly giddy with it. He can’t stop smiling.

Dean scoops up another forkful of eggs and holds it up for Cas. Cas eyes him warily and then leans forward. He chews thoughtfully as Dean tries to pull himself together, having nearly come apart watching Cas’s mouth. He swallows and meets Dean’s eyes.

“So? What’s the verdict?” Dean asks.

“A pleasant arrangement of molecules,” Cas says, his mouth curling up in a teasing smile.

Dean laughs and wraps his arm around Cas’s waist to draw him closer. “All right,” he says, conceding defeat. And then he kisses him.

Cas makes a surprised, pleased sound and then his hands are on Dean’s shoulders, his fingers in the short hair at the back of his neck. Dean leans into him, pulling their hips together, and Cas bucks against him. Arousal courses through Dean. Cas drags his fingernails lightly over Dean’s scalp and Dean gasps. Their kisses grow sloppier, wet and desperate, and then Cas is pushing Dean against the counter, slotting a leg between Dean’s thigh and rolling his hips against him. And, fuck, Dean can feel the hardness of him through his pants and is own dick twitches in response. The metal of the counter digs into the small of Dean’s back and it hurts a bit, but it’s also so fucking hot he thinks he might die from it. He hooks a foot around Cas’s calf to give himself enough leverage to meet Cas where he’s grinding against him. He tugs Cas’s shirt from his pants and gets his hand underneath, over Cas’s skin where he’s so warm. Cas groans and Dean makes a mewling sound he’ll be embarrassed about later. 

Dean tries to remember that they’re in the kitchen, that they should really take this somewhere else, that he’s much too old to grind his way to coming in his pants like a teenager, but it seems so unimportant with Cas pressed against him, warm and alive and solid in his arms. He can’t make those details important. The only thing that matters is keeping Cas close, bringing him even closer. The only thing that matters is the delicious friction against his dick where Cas is rocking against him.

“Is something burning?” Dean hears and it takes him a split second longer than it should to realize that it’s Sam asking that question. When that knowledge registers, Dean pulls away from Cas so quickly that he slams his elbow into the counter, right on his funny bone, so he feels it jolt through his entire arm. 

“Son of a bitch,” he hisses, cradling the offending joint.

Cas, who seems to have miraculously maintained some composure, turns to the stove to pull the now burnt bacon from the heat. 

Dean glances to the doorway where Sam is standing, his eyebrows so far up his forehead they’re in danger of getting lost in his ridiculous hair. Eileen is next to him, her lips pressed together like she’s trying to stifle a laugh. She looks thoroughly delighted, but not at all surprised, and Dean isn’t sure how to feel about that. He turns back to the stove to examine the damage done to the bacon, massaging his elbow all the while and being grateful that the shock of pain was at least enough to dampen his boner. Cas is not having the same luck and he shifts uncomfortably. When Dean finally brings himself to look at him he sees that Cas’s face has turned an impressive shade of red. Not as composed as Dean had initially thought, then. He wants to bring a reassuring hand to Cas’s back, but he suspects it won’t help his pants situation, so he refrains. 

Cas steps closer to the counter and Dean chances another look at his brother and Eileen. Sam is looking more amused the longer he stares at them. Dean shoots another glance at Cas and feels a fresh wave of embarrassment over his rumpled appearance. 

“Are we interrupting?” Sam asks.

Eileen, who had turned to Sam to see his reaction, answers, “I’d say we are.” 

At the same time, Cas growls, “Yes.”

It shouldn’t be a turn on. It is, though. It’s such a turn on that Dean considers smashing his elbow against the counter again to stop his dick from getting any ideas while his brother is standing right in front of him. Heat rushes to his face.

“We were just making some food,” Dean says. His voice comes out remarkably even and it fortifies him a bit.

“You mean burning some food?” Sam says, amusement playing across his face. He looks like he’s about to laugh.

“Oh, leave them alone,” Eileen says, signing at the same time and then giving Sam a light smack on the arm.

Dean wants to hug her.

“We were just going to grab some breakfast, but we can…” Sam trails off and makes a vague gesture towards the door.

Beside Dean, Cas sighs and says grudgingly, “I made a full pot of coffee.” It’s as good an invitation as any, but he still adds, “And there’s lots of bacon if you don’t mind it burnt.”

Dean wants to kiss him again, but he doesn’t think he’s quite ready for that. This thing between feels too fragile and new to be putting it on display just yet. He squeezes Cas’s shoulder instead and Cas gives him a soft smile that’s just for him. Dean’s heart trips in his chest.

After that it’s surprisingly easy. Eileen pours them all coffee. Sam scrambles more eggs. Dean makes toast. They all dig into the more-than-slightly-charred bacon. Dean does give Eileen a hug, thrilled to have her back in the bunker. Dean steals bacon off of Cas’s plate, and when he brushes toast crumbs from the corner of Cas's mouth (toast, apparently, like coffee, is made up of acceptable molecules) no one says anything. Sam just gives him a knowing look and a satisfied nod, like he’s happy for him. Dean looks around at all of them and basks in this small moment. He can’t believe they made it. Alive and whole and _happy_. He feels like his chest might burst with the fullness of it. 

He doesn’t notice Cas watching him until he feels his hand on his thigh, giving him a gentle squeeze. Dean takes his hand under the table and laces their fingers together. Contentment settles into his bones. For once, he thinks they might actually be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was meant to be a quick little fic to fix everything I hated about 15x20 and mostly scrub it from my brain, but it got away from me. I was going to wait until I finished the rest of it, but I'm probably just going to keep adding to this in a series of sorts, so here's the first part. I already have part of the next bit written but I make no promises as to timelines and posting regularity. Just know that at the very least there will be a second part in which they will finally bone.


End file.
